The Witcher: The Alchemist Who Walked the Witcher’s Road

Victor had little interest in what happened in Cintra seven years ago. It was all in the past anyway. The capital had fallen, the people were dead, and he had never met any of them himself.

But for those still living, it was carved into the bone, impossible to forget.

For the Great Druid Ermion, it meant always remembering his friendship with Queen Calanthe, and knowing that taking care of Ciri was a duty he could never set aside.

For Crach of an Craite, it meant that he could never forgive himself for failing to protect his guest, allowing Princess Pavetta, Ciri's mother, to die at sea. So he swore in his family's name that for the rest of his life, he would do everything he could to help Ciri.

And now, whether Victor wanted it or not, as more people learned of his connection to Ciri, those human legacies would all end up falling onto his shoulders.

And almost all of it was good, not bad. He did not have Ciri's Elder Blood, nor did he carry her long string of inheritance claims stretching across half the Continent. He was simply her little brother. No one would scheme against him for what he was, they would simply treat him kindly for Ciri's sake.

Stepping out of the tent, Victor greeted Dandelion and Angoulême, let his gaze rest for a moment on Cerys and Svani, nodded to them, and then walked straight toward old Gunnar.

As the boy advanced, the noise and clamor gradually died down. Everyone wanted to hear what Victor and Gunnar were about to say.

"The trial did not seem as difficult as you claimed," said the Dragonborn.

"You are the first outsider ever to complete the trial, and stronger than I had imagined. You have earned respect. I will see that your name spreads through all the Isles," replied old Gunnar.

The moment those words fell, cheers erupted all around them.

"Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin!"

The boy raised both hands and accepted the acclaim for quite some time, then returned to his friends.

"Angoulême, and these two ladies are?"

"Cerys an Craite. So you really are the Dragonborn? I'm glad to finally meet you!" Without waiting for anyone else to introduce her, the Sparrowhawk eagerly thrust out her right hand.

That little move was exactly the same as the bard's earlier attempt, and the other three all understood it at a glance.

The moment their hands met, Cerys put force into the handshake and instantly realized she had found a real opponent, no, not an opponent at all. In terms of raw strength, she was completely outmatched. He suppressed her grip at once.

Victor, however, did not press the matter. Nor did he hear Dandelion's silent plea from somewhere deep in the ether, crush her hand. He simply felt the other side ease off, and politely released her in turn.

A test of this level meant nothing. After all, she had the bearing of a future queen. If she had bowed her head at once, that would have been far stranger.

Besides, the an Craites were his natural allies. Not only because of Crach's oath, but because Hjalmar and Cerys had both been childhood companions of Ciri.

Naturally, Victor did not need to say any of that himself. Once the Great Druid told people, it would sound far more natural and convincing.

The tall woman beside Cerys then introduced herself as well.

"Dovahkiin, I am Svani an Hindar."

Faced with the daughter of House an Hindar, the boy sucked in a sharp breath.

At first glance he had not quite noticed, but now that he looked more closely, this was a truly terrifying mountain of muscle in female form.

Calling her a female Arnold would have been going too far, but female Stallone was entirely fair.

Thankfully, she had not asked for a handshake. That would have been a much harder hurdle to clear.

Victor placed a hand over his chest in greeting.

"Then, ladies, if you will excuse me, I'll take my leave and get some rest."

…

The next day, at the Fist of Fury arena, Victor, wearing sunglasses and leather armor, stood high in the stands beside his guide Folan, the Tuirseach family's marksman, surveying the grounds below.

It was only the two of them because everyone else had found something else to do. Angoulême had gone off exploring Bay of Winds with the two princesses. Dandelion had gone to inspect the artillery positions. As for Vigi, he was at the inn spreading the Dragonborn's fame, drinking and boasting until dawn.

The fine snow brushed lightly across their faces, and the wind hissed endlessly through the air.

The boy's face was blank as he extended a finger toward the arena below.

"Folan, don't tell me that is your champion, Olaf."

Looking at the figure below, swaggering around the arena floor, the marksman answered as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

"That's right. That is Olaf, champion of the Fist of Fury."

Taking off his sunglasses, Victor let out a long breath.

"Tell me, has no one noticed that it looks… very much like a bear?

A bear that stands nearly ten feet tall when upright, weighs over nineteen hundred pounds, has fangs and claws, and a full glossy coat…"

Scratching his cheek, Folan remained perfectly calm.

"Of course it looks like a bear. Because it is a bear, the biggest clawed brown bear in the Isles. It has been waiting a long time for a worthy opponent."

Waiting a long time, my ass.

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Could you tell me which genius put it into the arena and then let it become champion?"

"The previous champion."

"…What a complete moron."

"Hmm? What was that? I didn't quite catch it."

Ignoring the question, the boy pressed on.

"And where is the previous champion now?"

"He is in the heavens, sharing glory with his ancestors," Folan answered with complete seriousness.

Victor rolled his eyes.

"Ah… exactly what I expected."

"Barehanded combat is Skellige tradition. On Little Skellige Island, it is practically a faith. Our great ancestor Tyr defeated the giant bear Yngvar with his bare body and won this island…"

…

That night, in one of the side halls of the Skellige royal palace, Victor and his friends were staying there, thanks to King Bran's generosity.

As usual, his room had been converted into an alchemy workshop. Victor sat in front of the great cauldron trying to think up an inspired solution, because the Fist of Fury challenge was such a shameless trap that he absolutely had to come up with the right tool to beat Olaf.

In the world of hand-to-hand fighting, after all, body weight was not everything, but it was close enough to count as a huge part of everything.

Take boxing for example. A difference of as little as three pounds, and no more than twenty-five, was enough to force fighters into a separate weight class. That alone showed just how enormous the advantage of weighing more than your opponent could be.

Victor weighed less than a hundred and eighty pounds.

Olaf was over nineteen hundred.

That was nearly a tenfold difference in mass, a gap that could not be bridged. And any strike Victor landed would have to get through at least eight inches of fat before it even had a chance to injure the bear.

So even if he used second-generation Thunderbolt and second-generation Blizzard, hitting Olaf would still amount to little more than pounding weak little fists against its chest. Meanwhile, a single swipe from the beast would splatter the boy's brains on the spot.

Victor would have preferred to win fair and square, but no matter how he thought about it, cheating was clearly the better option. Incredible Alchemy existed precisely for moments like this, moments where necessity forced the greatest power out of inspiration.

He was still deep in thought when the door burst open.

"I'm back!"

Angoulême staggered inside, clearly drunk again.

Still, she had already told Victor that after her truly agonizing experience, she refused to share a bed with the two princesses ever again. So while she was drunk, she was obviously still aware enough to honor that decision.

Dragging a large sack behind her, she grinned and walked over to Victor, then threw the bag open with a flourish.

"Ta-da! I brought you a present!"

Pop.

A dense wave of blood, rot, and sour stench exploded out of the sack. The boy almost went down on the spot from the foul smell alone. Fortunately, he was well trained, and the odor was also one he knew quite well.

The party member laughed in delight at successfully pranking her captain.

Victor reached in and started sorting through the contents.

"Drowner tongues, drowner brains, huh, there's even mutagen here. Weren't you supposed to be having fun at Bay of Winds today? Where did you get such a fresh drowner set meal? This was definitely cut today."

The girl looked enormously pleased with herself.

"That place has been abandoned for ages. When we got there, there were more than ten black-backed drowners. Mean little bastards too. But they were no problem for me, I had Necrophage Oil."

Victor nodded. Most of the important alchemical products he made, he always kept spare batches for Angoulême. And after watching him for so long, she had learned a bit here and there about how the formulas worked. The low-grade version of Necrophage Oil only needed dog tallow and dandelion, making it one of the easiest sword oils to prepare.

"I charged in with Cerys and Svani after coating our blades, and then we started fighting, ugh… hic… and I'm telling you right now, the Phantom Troupe cannot let Svani join!"

That was such a sudden non sequitur that Victor laughed.

"Why not? Why can't we let her join the troupe?"

"Because she's too strong. Really too, too strong. Right, yes, that's it. If she joins, I won't be the number one hitter anymore. Do you even know how terrifying she is with that flail?"

Victor shook his head.

"When she swings that weapon, monsters actually go flying through the air. Hit one and it dies, brush one and it drops. There were more than ten drowners. Cerys and I killed two each, and Svani killed all the rest. I rushed in, chopped down two, turned around, and they were already all dead."

The boy raised an eyebrow.

So the princess of House an Hindar really was that strong, strong enough to make the girl feel inferior and trigger her insecurity.

"It's fine. Don't overthink it. She's a priestess of Freya's temple. She could never join us."

As he spoke, Victor crouched down and began doing the initial processing on the alchemical materials before putting them away in his herbal satchel.

Come to think of it, the last time he had gotten a fresh supply like this was back in Vizima, the time he met Siegfried. After that, he had not run into another good chance to clear out drowners.

And in the last couple of days, he had used up quite a few drowner tongues while brewing Killer Whale Potion to get through the underground trail.

So Angoulême's replenishment was exactly what he needed, a timely gift at the perfect moment. It was no small thing either, for a girl to take the time after killing monsters to gather materials for him.

With that in mind, the boy said, "Thank you for bringing these back for me. Is there anything you want, or anything you want me to do for you? How about an extra month's allowance?"

The moment the words left his mouth, it became obvious the girl had been waiting for exactly this. Her eyes lit up at once.

"I want my enchantment changed!"

She declared it loudly.

"I want the magic on my weapon changed. What kind of joke is this anti-flea enchantment you put on it before?

A couple days ago I got into a fight with somebody, and I was too embarrassed to even register. I'm serious. This sword's name is Golden Eagle now, and I want to be able to wield it with the same speed and ferocity as Catherine!"

She swayed a little as she spoke, but Victor ignored that and continued sorting materials.

"And if not that, then at least make it something like the Dawn Sword. Do you know how heartbroken I was when I saw Vigi pull that sword out?

Why does his sword get to be so beautiful? Why is mine only good for keeping away fleas? I was here first, so why does he get the better one?"

Hearing the grievance in her tone, the boy looked up at the drunk girl and rubbed his chin.

"Understood. Leave the sword here. I'll update the enchantment for you tonight. I guarantee I'll fulfill your wish."

…

After sobering up the next day, Angoulême felt a little ashamed, wondering whether she had been acting spoiled from being too favored.

But when she reached the door, she found that the boy had locked himself in and refused to come out.

Under the plaque reading Victor's Alchemy Workshop hung another wooden sign, Alchemy in Progress! Do Not Disturb!

And below that hung a third one.

Opening the Door May Cause an Explosion!

With no other choice, she dragged over a chair and sat outside the room all day, turning away Dandelion, who had no idea how serious the matter was, the two princesses who came to visit, and even King Bran's son, Svanrige.

What surprised her was that this round of Victor's alchemy lasted an entire day. Not only was it much longer than usual, but by evening, even the ground in a ring around the room had begun to glow with luminous patterns. Angoulême had no idea what it was, but it certainly looked impressive.

She kept watch until the morning of the third day.

While she was dozing off, a sudden thud came from inside the room, followed by a cry of pain.

Startled, the girl forgot the warning entirely and shoved the door open.

She found the boy collapsed on the floor clutching his stomach, drenched in cold sweat from the pain.

She stepped forward, about to speak, but Victor beat her to it.

"I'm fine. The experiment was simply too successful."

Bracing himself on the ground, he rolled over, sat up, uncorked a potion, and drank it down in heavy gulps. His complexion quickly improved.

Still stunned by the sudden scene, Angoulême did not know what to say, so she grabbed the first thing that came to mind.

"Folan is here. He's outside waiting for you."

A smile tugged at Victor's lips, knowing exactly what she was thinking. He rose proudly to his feet, grabbed the steel sword, stuffed it into her arms, and gave her a thumbs-up.

"Don't worry. It fully meets your requirements. Your sword is the best one now. Vigi's Dawn Sword can only glow for two hours at most. Prometheus burns continuously, but can't last an hour. Only yours has an effect that comes close to being permanent. I honestly don't even know how long it will last."

Hearing her captain say that, the girl broke into a smile. But when she swung the sword a few times, she could not feel any difference.

"Didn't you say it would make me move faster, fierce and swift like an eagle?"

The boy shook his head vigorously.

"No, no, no, not that. Your latest request was beyond my ability. What I fulfilled was your previous request."

Previous request? What previous request?

"Now, as long as you carry this steel sword, it can drive away both fleas and rats at the same time, keeping them from biting you. I have named it the Sword Against the Catriona Plague, Requiem.

You could say that with this in your possession, plague will have a very hard time getting near you. And the effect lasts an extremely long time, almost indefinitely."

"…"

Angoulême could tell Victor was not joking. He was completely serious.

And that only made it twice as infuriating.

Why did one sword glow, another spit fire, and hers get no visible effect at all?

Unfortunately, before the girl could complain, the boy had already gone off to meet Folan, who had come to escort Victor to the Fist of Fury arena.

…

The weather was clear, the view over the Fist of Fury arena was excellent, every seat was filled, and the atmosphere burned hot.

The Dragonborn's passage through the Warriors' Path had already been old news for three days, so today's fight had drawn even more attention.

The most distinguished spectators in the entire arena were, naturally, King Bran at the center, Queen Birna, the Great Druid Ermion, and Crach, head of House an Craite. He had come at Ermion's invitation, prepared to stop the fight if necessary and keep Ciri's little brother alive.

And among the younger generation seated nearby, there was one new heavyweight figure today as well.

Hjalmar an Craite, son of Crach and brother of Cerys.

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